


For she is seen

by lilbexi



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Eating Disorders, F/F, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 08:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbexi/pseuds/lilbexi
Summary: Grace reflects on a life of trying to stay hidden
Relationships: Frankie Bergstein/Grace Hanson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	For she is seen

She is aware of the irony. The irony of a life of aesthetics being led by someone with an overwhelming fear of being seen. Of building a whole company dedicated to the upkeep of physical appearance. Of the countless numbers of bright, bold colours hanging in her closet. Of the once or twice secret excursion for a subtle nip and tuck. She knows, when she allows herself the rare and frightening introspection enough to really consider it, that the business was her fortress, her stronghold, fortified for self-protection; the perfectly tailored scarlets and fuchsias in her closet, her armour; the youthful and attractive face, her weapon. These were her tools to help her navigate a life seen but unseen. CEO, Wife, Mother; meaningful-or-less titles that she could hide behind, forging out compatible and acceptable roles for herself that enabled her to remain in a world of _shoulds_ and _musts_. 

It wasn’t until late into her Third Act, until the beach house, that she really experienced being seen. To live with another who wanted to see and acknowledge rather than someone who would only ignore and tolerate. The turnabout was unsettling, like shifting sands, and it took all she had to keep upright in those first few months, to stay hidden. It didn’t take long for her realise that, over time, she had let her walls erode and weather, that she really wasn’t keeping _it_ out as much as those around her didn’t bother to look _in_. There again, it was easy to remain unseen when her daughters had left home and her husband was looking at another man instead of her and, truth be told, was most likely thankful that she found solace in a bottle of vodka rather than try to find it in him. 

Living alone in her marriage allowed her to do all the hiding she wanted, the limited need to maintain the walls leading them to wear away and her to become more transparent than opaque. And, whether it be age or exhaustion, she didn’t have the energy now to properly rebuild, instead settling for poor patch-up jobs made up of hard words and drunken rampages, of shoves into chairs and the eating of other people’s cake. Of pushing and pushing and _pushing_ away. 

It didn’t matter how hard she tried. She was always seen in that beach house, even when she tried not to be. Even when she pre-planned and hid the extra bottles for ease later. Even when she was discrete and waited an appropriate amount of time after dinner before disappearing upstairs to quietly close the bathroom door and take care of _it_. It turns out that vodka down necks and fingers down throats are forces which seep through duck egg bedroom walls, never mind poorly maintained and damaged ones, when there is someone there willing to see it. 

And Frankie was willing. God, was she ever willing. She jokes about being an intuitive witch but Grace can’t help but turn that over and over in her head and, despite her naturally sceptical nature, conclude that this is the only possible explanation. Frankie sees more than anyone ever has before, more than is bearable at first and more than is comfortable sometimes even now. 

Even now. 

It wasn’t the first time, when they were too focused on the change and on the novelty and on the pleasure. It wasn’t even the second, third or fourth times either, but some countless time later in the new Them. The new Us. It is in the quiet after the breathlessness and the sighs and the moans and peaks. Plural. Gentle fingers stroking down a soft forearm come to a stuttered halt and Grace can feel the inclination of Frankie’s head to get better look in the moonlight, can see the furrowed brow in her mind’s eye. 

Paralysed. Caught. 

Grace’s eyes open to stare unseeing at the ceiling, can’t even fathom moving her arm despite Frankie's fingertips being the gentlest of touches on her wrist. 

"It was a long time ago", she mutters to the ceiling, her breath caught high up in her chest. She can feel the confusion and the weight of another secret, the hurt and the _fucking_ concern coming off of Frankie in waves. A soft "hmmm" from a strangled throat the only reply, the soft fingers tracing and moving and finding. The silence and the moonlit patterns skidding across the ceiling transport her back to a different time, a different Grace, young and fucked up and lost and filled up to the brim with hate. The Grace who figured out that with the help of a blade she could let a tiny bit of _it_ out, just enough to prevent total meltdown. The Grace who ended up letting little bits out frequently because no matter how many times she had to wear long sleeves in the summer, it never seemed to get rid of _it_ for long. Shame heats her face, the same shame that led her to replace one coping mechanism with another because _that_ one leaves permanent scars, however faded by time they may get, and _this_ one is much more easily explained by a lack of appetite or an upset stomach. 

Sometimes she misses those days; the days before it was part of the social zeitgeist that people experience internal turmoil despite their outer appearance, that sometimes people who are hurting _hurt_. Sometimes she wishes she could go back to those easier times, when people minded their own damned business, didn’t notice, and didn’t voice. Sometimes she wishes she could go back to being two dimensional and unknown. To be safe. 

Frankie’s discovery and her uncharacteristic lack of questioning about it send Grace on a days-long spiral of introspection, buffered only by extra large vodka martinis side-eyed but not overtly acknowledged by Frankie. She considers that Frankie must know how seen she feels, how frightening being seen is right now, about _this_ thing, and Frankie is giving her space and time, because the part of her that needs to be unseen is ridiculously seen as well. She can’t help but feel off balance now, discovered and exposed. And she knows that she is letting it slowly eat away at this new facet of their relationship, that she is short tempered and curt and masking the shame with a forked tongue and a series of irritated sighs. 

Her introspection has made her reflect on all the other hidden secrets she’s kept her whole life, knitted together to create a tapestry of the biggest secret of all. The secret of self-denial, of compensation, of fakery and conformity. The secret kept locked in the back of her mind, only sneaking out to allow her a semi-objective appreciation of how her first office assistant’s legs looked in her skirt, of how a marketing consultant’s shirt stretched pleasantly over her breasts. Eighty-fucking-years old and she has only just allowed herself to acknowledge a same sex attraction, even then telling herself that it’s Frankie, not _women_ , that she loves. 

"I’m a fraud", she says quietly into the darkness of the bedroom several nights later, not sure if it was even meant be heard. Frankie turns to face her, hair falling over her shoulder as she settles against the pillow. Her question is silent, a crinkle of her brow and slight purse of her lips. Grace lies on her back with her hands folded on her stomach, bedsheets folded neatly below her breasts, eyes trained on the ceiling. 

"I’ve been lying to myself my whole life." The patient silence from Frankie prompts Grace to turn her head and look her in the eyes for a long moment before looking back up to the ceiling. 

"I’m a lesbian." Resigned or affirmed she can’t be sure. 

"Oh, honey," Frankie reaches out a hand to cover Grace’s tightly clasped ones. "I’m so proud of you."

She turns to look at Frankie again. "Why?" she asks, perplexed. "I’ve been a coward my whole life. I’ve done nothing but hide and pretend."

Frankie looks at her thoughtfully. "You’ve lived your life how you felt you had to, Grace. There’s no shame in that. And you’re not pretending now. Now is your time. Our time."

Grace closes her eyes and lets out a sigh, turns her body to face Frankie’s, rests her forehead against hers. "I’m sorry," she whispers. "I know I’m . . . fucked up." Frankie pushes one hand through Grace’s hair, tilts her head to plant a kiss on her forehead. A promise. "We’re all a little fucked up," she says softly, her nose touching Grace’s. "But that’s ok. Your truth is safe with me, Grace. _You_ are safe with me."

Grace brings her hand to Frankie’s cheek, soothes it with her thumb. She knows the remnants of the past still remain, will rear their head more than once in the time they have left together. And she knows that Frankie will remain regardless. 

"I know."

And she does. For she is seen. And she is loved. 


End file.
